The Talent

A thick haze like dangling clouds submerges the city. Pria stares wistfully out the window, her blocked elbow keeping her face from sinking. Occasional traces of figures slide through the streets like phantoms. A sigh echoes from the ballerina’s chest. She remains at her post dutifully, unflinching even as the other kids pass her by or as stomping footsteps shake the nearby stairs. No one realizes, except little Pria herself, that she is skipping lessons today.

Tiny knocks set the principal alive again, his unprecedented nap interrupted.

“H-huh?” he stammers, searching his surroundings and scattering a few papers. “C-come in!” Quickly, he tries to arrange himself so his hair isn’t fluffed nor his glasses sideways.

Meekly, little Pria pushes the door ajar, just barely allowing herself to pass through.

“Oh, Miss Pria. It’s you,” Mr. Marnet says, a tiny bit of relief and delight in his tone.

Not wasting any time, the little ballerina folds her hands gingerly behind her back and plants her feet to the carpeted hardwood. “I’m confused, Mr. Marnet.”

“Confused? How so?” the principal leans forward in his seat, responding with a voice tinged with curiosity.

“Well…” Pria’s words trail away, not knowing from whence they manifested nor to where they are divined to go.

“Here, sit down,” Mr. Marnet invites.

Pria wills her tiny feet to shuffle across the rug. “You know how I don’t have to practice as much as everyone else? Why is that?”

“Well, everyone has to practice, Miss Pria, and I’m sure you do. It just comes more naturally to you.”

“And why is that?” she chirps, repeating her question.

“Well, because you’re talented,” Mr. Marnet spouts matter-of-factly.

“Talented,” she twirls the word on her tongue. “But does that make me different?”

“A little, yes,” Mr. Marnet wills his old frame off the seat and stretches his back, visibly straining. “Why? Are some of those kids teasing you?” he reprimands like a caring teacher just waiting for the answer to be true to his deduction.

“No, I was just confused.”

“Are you sure?” the principal’s eyes widen and lift, unable to believe her claim.

“Yes,” Pria whispers, twiddling her thumbs as she sinks into her seat, hoping its imposing size will draw its shadow over her and make her transparent.

“What? You’re unhappy?” Mr. Marnet questions, fully concerned albeit moderately confused.

Pria nods in response. “Isn’t it unfair that I’m talented?”

“Unfair to whom, Miss Pria?” the principal questions, kneeling beside her.

“Everyone else.”

He sighs. “You shouldn’t feel that way. Having someone like you in my academy is a blessing to me.” He rises. “If they happen to be bothering you, even indirectly, you can tell me, all right?”

“But, Mr. Marnet, I don’t need to be pampered like a princess. Or rescued when I’m in trouble. I don’t want anyone to care about me,” the prima ballerina rambles on.

“You don’t want anyone to care?” Mr. Marnet, once again, cannot comprehend her. “But it’s—”

“I don’t want to dance in the front row, and I don’t want to be talented,” Pria interrupts, definitively more loudly and more decisive than she’s ever been.

“But…”

After a moment of reflection, the ballerina presents her decision. “I just want to be like everyone else.”

The haze elevates into the sky, enveloping heaven as rain clouds that deliver persistent rain to the cloaked city. Pria defies the mist, following the curb on her daily walk. The sidewalk’s curb winds around the murky buildings, tracing the pavement until the path returns to the ballet academy in one, big block. Then Pria hops over and proceeds the opposite direction, heeding the predetermined journey as it spells out its intended destination plainly for her. She repeats this four time, refusing to dust the gathering mist off her face.

On the final return home, Pria’s thoughts get the better of her again. Vague visions of the previous class swipe through her head, followed in turn by the seeping tears that marred Cherie’s face as she cowered on the floor.

We’re just jealous of you. It’s like you don’t even have to practice.

Rain drips from the sky, pooling luminescent reflections in the pavement. Pria picks up her feet, skipping along in a ballet fashion, her feet instinctively crossing one over the other without trouble or sorrow. But then one catches. Pria plunges to the floor, her compact figure just missing the street. The sidewalk scratches the palms of her hands. Her legs and feet lay tethered behind her, reclining in return of their master. Large rain droplets scatter about, creating rivers parallel to the roads.

Clutching her reddened hands into fists, Pria storms off down the walk, her frantic footsteps kicking up rain and refusing to stop even if they reached the end of the world.

A trace of the sun alights the sky as Pria returns home, soaked and unhappy.

“What happened to you?” Asher asks, surprised at his daughter. Without hesitation, he fetches a big towel. “What,” he jokes, “did the academy flood?”

“No,” Pria mutters, unfolding the towel and wrapping her head in it, “I went for a walk.”

“In the rain?” Asher replies incredulously.

“Yes, in the rain. It wasn’t raining like this earlier.” Pria sets the towel on the floor, passing it by to find a snack in the kitchen.

“How much earlier? Aren’t you supposed to be in class?”

Pria hesitates. “No.”

“Did they cancel it?”

“No.”

“Then…”

Pria unfolds a granola bar studded with chocolate chips. “It ended early.”

Asher doesn’t question, just allowing the sequence of events to dissipate around him.

Pria finishes up the measly snack, discarding the wrapper. Casually, she catches a seat on the sofa and calls the companionship of a magazine, flipping it open to the picture puzzle page.

“What is this?!” Asher finally shouts, unable to take this farce anymore. “You almost never sand this still and come back early! Plus, you’re reading a magazine!”

“It passes the time,” Pria explains nonchalantly.

“Just tell me the truth!” her foster father pulls away her magazine, his face confused as to how it should feel: frustrated, concerned, duped. For all he knows his foster daughter was just replaced by a doppelgänger. “Did they have lessons today or not?”

“I don’t know. They might have. I just wasn’t there.”

Pria resumes trying to find hidden pictures in the puzzle while her foster father stands perfectly still with mouth wide open, stymied, like a gargoyle.

“Pria,” he finally voices. “That’s not like you. What’s wrong?”

“I just didn’t feel like it,” she mutters, a little guilty.

“It’s not something you can pick and choose. We’re paying for your lessons. Besides, it’s not something you’d willingly skip, anyway.”

Pria banishes the magazine to the floor. “I know.” She folds her tattered palms over her face.

Asher sighs. “Look,” he sits beside her on the couch, “is something bothering you?”

“I have a question,” Pria reveals her face—not stricken but full of determination. “Why is it troubling to be talented?”

“Well, I wouldn’t know, sorry. I’m not really good at anything. Except if you count annoying Mr. Marnet,” he chuckles.

“Well then…” Pria mumbles. “What about Mom?”

A shadow covers Asher; a persistent shadow, tangible like smoke. He shuts his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he breathes at last. “I wouldn’t know that, either.”

Pria packs her duffel and slips on her black slippers, making sure they’re tight on her feet. She evaporates a tiny sigh before killing the lights in her room and shutting the door. The stairs have become like an age-old companion to her whenever Pria is uncertain. They always lead to the same place, and traversing them up and down, from the moment of departure to the future’s arrival, somehow comforts her. As one can travel back to where one came, but that second arrival is hardly the same as it once was. But seeing it again and again, as time still marches on, diminishes the pain that was once felt, and one’s eyes are open now to the new experience.

In the kitchen, Pria foregoes the toast and heads straight for the canister cinnamon rolls, sneaking the tiny container of icing all for herself.

“Pria!” her foster father quickly catches on. “No eating the icing!”

“But it’s my favorite,” Pria complains quietly, returning the sugary delight to the countertop.

“Are you going today?” Asher questions, with hope in his heart, as he spies Pria’ duffel bag.

“Yes.”

“Good.”

Now that her father is immersed in cooking the eggs, Pria noiselessly retrieves the icing once again and elopes with it, eating the entirety of it.

“No!” Asher yells once the deed is done.

With a shy smile, Pria questions, “Are the cinnamon rolls done yet?”

Heading out the door with a roll, Pria takes a bite and heads to the vehicle, securing her place in the passenger’s seat.

Asher soon comes by, slamming the driver’s seat door, adjusting the mirrors, and sputtering the car to life.

Pria daintily chews another morsel of the roll. “Am I ever going to get to drive?”

“In another 10 years,” her father states automatically, now used to this query.

Homes, scattered in neat rows like trees, make the suburban forest; once they depart to the past, there is nothing but industry with the prospect of the city’s looming heart waiting in the horizon. Pria doesn’t much care for the dusty interstate and color-splattered walls that come before the city’s diamond finish. She likes the route she takes on bike better. Trees and quaint homes line the roads, and dogs are always barking in the distance. Here is just cars and smog.

The two make it off the main road just as the route is about to congest with traffic. The familiar buildings welcome Pria with glittering smiles, and the little ballerina returns a wave, finishing the last of her cinnamon roll.

“Did you bring your bag?” Asher asks.

“Yes.”

“I thought you forgot it.”

“No, because then we’d have to go all the way back,” Pria comments, retrieving her pack from the back seat.

The arts district’s main row rises to the occasion, the sun’s beams pointing like a compass to the golden ornaments that adorn the academy’s façade.

Pria points without any words.

“Yes, we’re here,” Asher engages the parking break. “I’ll pick you up later, OK? And no skipping.”

“That was just the one time, Dad,” Pria complains, mocking his tone.

Asher smiles, waving Pria goodbye as she closes the door.

Pria says that, but the imposing structure before her sours her spirits once again, dredging up all the guilt and recollections. Pria groans to herself, dragging a hand over her face.

The inside is more serene than usual, all its inhabitants preoccupied by other means or safely secured in halls. A little late, Pria dangles her grasp to the door handle, hesitant to interrupt. But then she decisively takes the initiative for herself, refusing for the situation of the teacher eventually spotting her and allowing her passage. Once inside, Pria rushes to make up for lost stretches, hugging the corner by the door and hoping that no one spots her.

Just as she’s about to touch her toes, her wave of interest follows a passing conversation among some of the nicer girls, a small gathering including Laura, the tallest.

“Aren’t the steps hard?” one young lady comments.

“Yeah, it’s a little tricky sometimes,” another returns, stretching and twisting from side-to-side.

Laura speaks up, “It is a lot of work,” she admits, rising from the floor, “but that’s what makes it sort of fun. You can see your hard work come to life.”

Pria’s opacus shroud evaporates.

“I guess so, but it’s still so tough!” the same girl responds.

“It would be fun to be able to memorize things right away,” another young lady muses.

“Yes,” another jumps in, “but then we wouldn’t have lessons!” She declares, gathering them in her thin arms for a hug, and they all giggle.

Pria cherishes their words to heart. Shutting her eyes, she banishes the dark cloud hovering over her, hoping to accept who she is. With a stern expression and a stomp, she stands at attention, her steely eyes focusing on their goal. With definitive steps and stance, she heads for the mirror, securing her place at the front of the right row.

Next Chapter: Synopsis